The Two Mr Darcys
by Eggsbenni221
Summary: Mark hadn't wanted to attend the Amnesty International Christmas charity gala, especially now that Bridget seems quite taken with one of the more distinguished guests. (Summary is rubbish, but I didn't want to spoil the surprise-you'll see!)


The Two Mr. Darcys

by Eggsbenni221

Disclaimer: the author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen fielding. No money is being made with this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I've probably taken a few liberties with the timeline in order to fit the story within the seasonal theme. Also: this story is the result of a very silly conversation I had with a friend about a dress recently worn by Livia Firth at the London Film premier of "Gambit" (starring Colin Firth). I consequently envisioned a ridiculous scenario involving Bridget making a less-than-flattering comment about said dress. I hope you'll enjoy and take it in the fun-filled spirit of the holiday in which I offer it. No intent to offend Livia, Colin, or fans is meant. Merry Christmas!

"Bridget!" Mark called up the stairs. "Will you please hurry up? We're going to be late!" Impatiently tapping his foot on the bottom step, he glanced down at his watch for the hundredth time. It was 7.45; the dinner was supposed to begin promptly at 8.00. Not that Mark had any desire to attend the Amnesty International Christmas charity gala, but if he had to make an appearance, he was damned if he was going to make a spectacle of himself by arriving behind time. It wasn't that he disliked charity work; his success at his job thrived on his dedication to speaking out for those whose voices were being silenced and championing their rights. Still, it was work, and strained as he was after successfully defending several of the most challenging cases he'd encountered in his career, Mark could think of more pleasant ways of spending a Friday evening. He might have turned down the invitation, if not for the fact that the rest of his colleagues would be there: Jeremy and Magda, Giles, Nigel, and, very likely (Mark cringed at the thought) Natasha.

'Hell, Darcy, be a man. Get a bloody grip on yourself. You've got nothing to fear from Natasha.' It was true; he hadn't, not now anyway. With the exception of Jeremy and Magda, his colleagues had delicately raised their eyebrows and smiled politely when he had become engaged to Bridget, and their cool politeness had been a poor mask for the disdain they had clearly felt; he hadn't cared. He loved her, she made him happy, and that was what mattered.

'So why do you have to be such an arse?' he thought. For all that he said about being secure in his relationship with Bridget, he'd been jealous when he'd gone to meet a client for lunch that day and spotted her with, of all people, Daniel Cleaver. He'd endeavored to quench the rising jealousy that had ignited in his chest at the sight by noting that Bridget looked distinctly uncomfortable, but if she hadn't wanted anything more to do with Daniel—as clearly she didn't—what was she doing lunching with him? She hadn't appeared to notice Mark, nor had he made his presence known to her, but on his returning home from work that evening to dress for the dinner, his casual inquiry about her day had yielded no explanation. He might have asked—might have told her he'd seen her—but he'd concluded that it was her responsibility to share the information. It might easily have been nothing, he'd thought as he straightened his tie, but had that been the case, surely Bridget would have mentioned it.

Having worked himself into what he admitted was a rather Darcyish sulk, Mark had gone to wait for Bridget downstairs, grimly reveling in his brooding as he stalked about the room with his hands in his pockets.

"Mark?" The sound of Bridget's voice tugged him from his morbid musing. "Mark, I'm ready." Turning, he saw her coming down the stairs toward him, the fabric of her dress rustling against her thighs. The garment was deceptively simple, but the unadorned, clingy black material hugged her form, accentuating the curves of her shape and offering a mere tease of cleavage above the neckline. The portion of Mark's brain that still contemplated yelling at her was now battling with the portion that wanted to tear away that sexy slip of silk and trail his mouth over every inch of flesh he could reach. He should speak, tell her…something—how lovely she looked, perhaps. If only the light, flowery fragrance emanating from her skin weren't fogging his brain and rendering him incapable of speech.

" Is something wrong?" asked Bridget, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket.

"What? I-no, nothing," Mark replied.

"Are you sure?" Bridget pulled back to examine his face. "You look a bit upset."

Mark set his back teeth; damn it, they didn't have time for this. "I'm fine," he said abruptly. "You know how I feel about being late."

"I know. I'm sorry," Bridget murmured, dropping her eyes.

"Never mind. Come. We might just make it."

Bridget ran her fingers over the crystal champagne flute she held as her eyes traveled around the room of well-dressed, highly influential attendees. She didn't belong here; every other moment she glanced over her shoulder, waiting for someone to come and escort her from the room, declaring there must have been some terrible mistake. Plucking at the sleeve of her simple black dress, she felt like a scuffed pair of trainers amidst racks of Jimmy Choos. She wished Magda had come with Jeremy, but their sitter had rung to say she was sick, so Jeremy had come on his own.

"Bridget, will you stop fidgeting?" Mark hissed in her ear. "People are staring."

'I bet they are,' thought Bridget. 'And there's nothing Mark Darcy hates as much as unwanted attention. Well, he's had more than his fair share of it with me.' She suspected his thoughts were traveling a similar line; he'd certainly been behaving strangely since he'd come home from work that evening. Perhaps he was worried about what people would think of him, bringing her here, or perhaps he'd seen her with Daniel that afternoon, or known somehow that they'd lunched together. She couldn't see how, though, and in any case, it hadn't meant anything. She'd tell him about it later though, she decided; just to ease her conscience.

Suddenly her eyes widened in surprise, and she moved closer to Mark.

"Oh my god, Mark, you won't believe it!"

"What?" he asked, frowning.

"Look! Look who it is!" She gestured with her champagne flute toward the opposite end of the crowded ballroom.

"Well, what?" Mark said grumpily.

"Don't you recognize her?" Bridget hissed.

Mark's frown deepened. "I'd been hoping to conveniently continue pretending she was invisible, thank you," he said. "But since you insist on calling her to my attention, yes, I noticed Natasha."

"No!" exclaimed Bridget, endeavoring with immense effort to keep her voice below a shriek, though she couldn't help noticing with some satisfaction that Mark was eyeing Natasha's shapeless, silver-gray dress with an expression of distaste. "The woman she's chatting to! The one in the white dress that looks like someone went and stitched together used hankies!" The corners of Mark's mouth twitched.

"Bridget, why is this so important?"

"Come here." Bridget rose on her toes to whisper in Mark's ear. "That's Livia Firth!"

"You don't mean she's…"

"Yes," hissed Bridget. "So you know what that means, don't you?"

"That there's another Mr. Darcy in the room," Mark said dryly. "And one that I must confess I'm rather tired of competing with."

Bridget swatted his arm. "Don't be ridiculous, Mark."

"I can't say I recognized her," said Mark. "Though," he added, "She's a rather attractive woman. I hope Natasha isn't seeking a fashion consultation though. I have to agree with you about the dress. It does look a bit like used hankies."

"I wonder what the material actually is," murmured Bridget.

"Organic silk."

Bridget started; she was certain she recognized the voice that had just spoken behind her—that crisp, autumnal breeze with just a hint of lingering summer at its edges. Slowly turning round, she wondered, if she gave up smoking, drinking, chocolate croissants, and buying lottery tickets, whether the universe might take pity on her and grant her the chance to have a conversation with this man that she could look back on without wanting to shrivel up and die.

Suddenly dropping the chilly reserve he'd been hiding behind all evening, Mark stepped behind her and bent his lips toward her ear. "Inner poise, Bridget," he whispered, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Swallowing hard, Bridget nodded.

"I…Um, Mr. Firth."

"Colin," he said smoothly, offering his hand. Bridget tried to look anywhere except into that intense gaze in an endeavor to retain some degree of control over her tongue. Instantly she felt Mark stiffen behind her; his hand dropped from her shoulder, and he stepped back.

"It's Bridget, isn't it?" said Colin, pressing her hand and looking directly into her eyes- god, she really wished he wouldn't do that.

"Oh, yes, yes," she said a little breathlessly. "I-I didn't think you'd remember. It's been quite some time."

Colin smiled. "I'm not likely to forget," he said, a ripple of amusement in his tone.

"I would have tried to, if I were you. That interview was bloody awful," said Bridget.

"Not at all. It was"-there ensued a delicate pause-"singularly refreshing, actually."

Bridget didn't need to look over her shoulder to know that Mark was standing with his arms folded, endeavoring, probably unsuccessfully, not to look as if he disapproved of this exchange. "Ah, um…" in all of her mother's lessons on manners, all her 'don't-say-what-say-pardon' lectures, hadn't it ever occurred to her to mention how one handled awkward situations like introducing one's fiancé to an actor one had shamelessly flirted with while attempting to interview him? "Um, this is my fiancé, M-Mark…Mark Darcy. Mark, this is-well, you know…"

Without missing a beat, Colin extended a hand. "A pleasure," he said, and this time Bridget saw a hint of dimples in the smile he flashed in her direction (and possibly a wink).

"Likewise," Mark said coolly. "I'm familiar with your work, of course."

"Two Mr. Darcys," Bridget giggled before she could stop herself. Glancing at both men, she saw, to her amusement, that Mark was wearing a very Darcyish scowl, while Colin seemed to be in the grip of an intense internal struggle with himself over whether or not to laugh.

"Um, yes, well," said Mark, "if you'll excuse me. I need to have a word with one of my colleagues," and abruptly he strode off in the direction of Jeremy and Nigel.

"I'm sorry about that," murmured Bridget, blushing as she watched him go.

"It's perfectly all right," replied Colin, the teasing glint in his eye betraying his neutral expression. A long, oppressive silence seemed to be pressing in round them; Bridget could see the people moving about the room, chatting, laughing, and dancing, but she and her conversation companion seemed to have been caught in an air-tight, sound-proof bubble. Her blush deepening, Bridget lowered her eyes.

"Forgive me if this seems a bit forward," said Colin, "but would you care to dance?"

Bridget imagined that sound-proof bubble exploding around her in a shower of stars. "With you?" she squeaked.

Colin smiled. "Well, that was the idea, yes."

"Well, I-that is…" out of the corner of her eye, Bridget spotted Mark leading Natasha onto the floor. As she watched the other woman skim her fingertips over Mark's arm, she wished she could snap them off, one by one. Straightening her shoulders and smoothing down the skirt of her dress, she gave Colin a bright smile. "Well, yes, that would be lovely."

"Allow me." Holding out a hand to Bridget, Colin drew her fluidly into the steps of the dance, humming softly (and, Bridget noted with some amusement, rather tunelessly) as he guided her into a slow twirl.

"Aren't we supposed to talk about books, or the number of couples, or the dance, or…something?"

"No," said her companion, chuckling; she loved the sound of it, warm and rich and emanating from deep in his chest. "Real life isn't quite that scripted, I'm afraid."

"I still very much enjoy your work," said Bridget. "But you must get rather tired of hearing that," she added quickly, feeling her cheeks going red again.

"No, thank you," Colin said quietly, giving her fingers a squeeze. "It's still surprisingly gratifying, actually. It's rewarding when people love your work as much as you do, and anyway," he added with a shrug, "it flatters my vanity. I would never claim to possess enough humility to pretend otherwise."

"I must admit it's a lovely surprise seeing you and your wife here," said Bridget. "I suppose you attend a lot of events like this, especially during the holidays."

"Yes, I'm something of a magnet for such things. Fortunately for me, I have a soft spot for a good cause."

'Like Mark,' Bridget thought wistfully.

"I feel a bit out of place, myself," she admitted. "I don't generally get invited to such things. I'm here because of Mark, really."

Colin nodded. "Darcy," he murmured thoughtfully. "He wouldn't perchance be the human rights barrister?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is," answered Bridget, glowing with pride that someone as illustrious as her current dance partner would know her fiancé.

"He's made quite a name for himself," said Colin. "He's a good man, from all I've heard. I must congratulate you."

Bridget wondered if her cheeks would ever return to their normal color. "Thank you," she whispered. Then frowning as her gaze slid toward Natasha, she added reluctantly, "I don't know if his colleagues would agree with you. I think he might have had second thoughts about bringing me here tonight. I lack a certain…ability to behave myself."

Colin laughed. "Don't we all."

"Oh, I'm sure you can comport yourself with far more grace than I can," Bridget said quickly.

"Don't flatter me," replied her companion.

"Anyway," continued Bridget, feeling surprisingly at ease all of a sudden, "I don't think Mark's colleagues like me much," she confessed.

"Hmm," said Colin by way of response.

"What?" asked Bridget.

"Nothing. I just wonder if that's true. I find you quite engaging, actually."

"That was almost convincing," laughed Bridget.

"That's the trouble with acting," said Colin with a dramatic sigh, gently tugging on her hand and guiding her into another twirl. "No one ever believes you when you're being sincere."

"Oh, that's not, I didn't mean—" stammered Bridget.

"It's quite all right," he assured her. Following Bridget's gaze to Natasha again, he said thoughtfully, "I think, quite possibly, that they envy you."

"They…envy me? Now you really are flattering me."

"Really." Colin's gaze was direct and kind. "They're all so concerned with being straight-laced and politically correct, and here you are, free-spirited and unrestrained, comfortable in yourself, just as you are. It must be as intimidating as it is refreshing."

"I-thank you," said Bridget, taken aback. "That…means quite a lot, coming from you."

As the dance came to an end, Bridget noticed the woman who had a marital claim on her partner beckoning him from across the room with the crook of one neatly-manicured finger.

"Ah," said Colin. "It appears I'm being summoned."

"I've enjoyed our chat," said Bridget. "Thank you."

"A pleasure, Miss Jones," replied Colin. He pressed her hand warmly between both of his own, and then, to her surprise, brought it to his lips. "Merry Christmas, Bridget," he said softly, and with another flash of dimples and a squeeze of her hand, he strode away.

Mark stood in the doorway to the bathroom, silently watching Bridget removing her make-up and readying herself for sleep. She still hadn't removed her dress, and despite his annoyance, his fingers itched to relieve her of that particular task.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," he said finally, crossing his arms.

"I did, yes," Bridget said airily.

"You seemed to get on rather well with that other Mr. Darcy of yours," he commented, with just a hint of heat and temper in his usually cool tone.

Bridget arched an eyebrow. "Mark, you aren't seriously jealous of Colin Firth, of all people. That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard."

Scowling, Mark stalked to the bedroom window and looked out at the flurries of snow that began to dust the street outside. "Why did you bloody have to go and dance with him?"

"He happens to be a lovely man." Mark said nothing. "Mark, really," Bridget said gently, placing a hand on the small of his back. "You're being childish. How was I supposed to refuse without looking like a complete snob?" When Mark still didn't respond, she continued, "Honestly? I might not have, but I saw you dancing with Natasha!"

Mark whirled round to face her. "And I saw you having lunch with Daniel Cleaver. We're even." As he registered the shocked expression on her face, he realized she'd had no intention of sharing this information with him.

"You saw-how did you know?" she stammered.

"I happened to be there," said Mark. "I was meeting a client. Bridget, what were you doing with bloody Daniel cleaver, and, more importantly, why didn't you bother to mention it?"

"I was going to tell you," Bridget insisted. "But then I thought better of it, because the way you're reacting right now is precisely what I was trying to avoid!" Mark swore under his breath and turned away from her, clenching his fists in an effort to gain control of himself. She didn't understand, and he thought she, of all people, would have done so. To see her again with the man who had not only broken her heart, but had destroyed his own marriage (not that there had been much to destroy, but that was entirely beside the point. It was the principle of the thing).

"If you really want to know, I'll tell you," Bridget said at last. "He ran into Shazzer earlier this week and, um, asked how I was doing, and Shazzer, being Shazzer, wanted to rub his nose in it a bit and told him about the-us…being…you know-getting married. He rang me the next day and, um, asked if we could have lunch, just, you know, as friends. He wanted to apologize for being an arse and wish me…wish us well. I met him, he said his piece, I said mine, we had a few laughs, and both went back to work. That was all, Mark. I swear it." Mark said nothing; what could he say? He'd been an idiot. Looking at him, Bridget's expression softened, and she came and put her arms around him. "You believe me, don't you?" she said timidly, looking up into his face.

He nodded. "Yes, of course I do. I just-when I saw you with him, I thought…well, I didn't know what to think. It was wrong of me, darling. Forgive me."

"It was probably along the same lines as what I thought when I saw you with Natasha," said Bridget. "I mean, I know she's a bitch, but sometimes I can't help thinking I'm just not the sort of woman…"

Mark cupped her face in his hands and touched his lips to hers to silence her. "Bridget, love," he whispered, "You are the most beautiful, most refreshing woman I've ever met, and I love you." Her lips twitched at his use of the word 'refreshing'. "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing. It's just, well, I am pretty refreshing, now you mention it." Without speaking, Mark slid his arms around Bridget and trailed his hands down her back. "Mark!" she squealed as her dress slithered to the floor.

"Yeeees?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"My dress! That was a dirty little trick."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, scooping her off her feet and carrying her to the bed. After quickly shedding his own clothes, he lowered himself down beside her and pulled her into his arms. A very long, very pleasant silence ensued, punctuated only by sighs of pleasure.

"Bloody Hell, that was amazing," murmured Bridget drowsily when they'd finished, dropping her head to Mark's chest.

"You're welcome," said Mark. "I bet that's made you forget all about Colin Firth," he added, grinning down at the dazed look in her eyes.

"Who?" murmured Bridget.

Mark laughed. "Exactly," he chuckled, catching her face in his hands and kissing her again.

The End


End file.
